Addiction
by Pennatus
Summary: Holmes x Watson, oneshot. An addiction. Something uncontrollable, irrational, and utterly consuming. Something we shared in these forbidden moments.


Finally I post my Watson x Holmes story! Seriously, those two guys want each other so badly. It's not even subtle. …it's awesome. :D

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing and want no profit.

0.o

I shouldn't be here.

That's the thought that continues to surface in my mind, even as his lips crash into mine, even as he plunges himself deeper into me, even as I gasp and blink away tears. I know it's a sin, what we're doing _right now_, I know it's wrong and I'm beginning to realize that I really don't care.

I'm not entirely sure how this all started. I do remember when, though. I had been on Baker Street, passing through to somewhere I can't recall, and almost unconsciously I'd slowed as I'd passed that familiar, non-descript door. I knew I shouldn't stop, that he was an adult and could take care of himself. I had those thoughts, and still I found myself walking up those steps and knocking on that door.

One short visit couldn't hurt, I told myself. One would think I would know better, after all those months with him.

Mrs. Hudson ushered me in with a concerned and flustered look on her face. "Mr. Watson! It's so nice to see you. I was going to invite you over, but I didn't want to impose on you and your new wife…"

"What's he done this time?" I sighed, instantly sinking back into my role of "mother hen".

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "He's been taking every case he can get his hands on, which is odd enough by itself. He comes and goes at all times of the night. And he spends every spare moment shut up in that room of his."

I raised an eyebrow. Other than the first observation, all of those actions didn't seem out of the ordinary.

Mrs. Hudson huffed. "Just go see for yourself."

I shrugged and turned, slipping out of my coat and draping it over my arm in a practiced movement.

Climbing the achingly familiar stairs brought a surprising shock of nostalgia. Odd. It felt like I'd been away longer then just a month, and that feeling made my footsteps heavy and hesitant.

I stood in front of the wood door, my hand rising unconsciously and knocking on that paneled wood.

"Holmes?" I called out, reaching for the doorknob.

I hesitated, realizing that this wasn't my home anymore, wasn't my problem. To barge into his room was not only rude but possibly unnecessary. Did I really want to re-initiate contact with him?

My hand tightened on the knob and I watched as the door swung open, my body answering the question my mind could not yet come to terms with.

"Holmes?" I said again, glancing around the darkened room.

Crossing the room and hearing a strange crunching noise emanating from beneath my feet (but deciding to ignore it for now), I threw open one set of curtains, letting the light flood the room. At a small noise from behind me I turned.

And there he was on his hands and knees, his ragged hair shielding his eyes. I couldn't stop myself from kneeling down in front of him, my hands firmly gripping his shoulders. I wrinkled my nose at the smell – clearly his hygiene hadn't improved while I was away – but I couldn't bring myself to move.

His head lifted and he looked at me with those unreadable eyes.

"Dear Watson," he said without evidence of surprise. "How nice to see you again." Did I detect a hint of resignation, perhaps sadness? Surely it must be my imagination.

"What have you done?" I murmured, observing his gaunt face and the dark rings under his eyes.

I looked beyond him when I noticed something glinting on the sun.

Glass.

Everywhere.

Scattered across the floor like a deadly snowfall. Glistening in the light.

And he was kneeling in it.

Slowly, I moved my eyes back to Holmes.

The corners of Holmes' mouth twitched. "What you are witnessing, Watson, is a clear example of my determination and perseverance."

"Most people call that stubbornness," I returned, masking my concern with irritation.

"Call it what you will, the result is still the same. I have not consumed any alcoholic drink or chemical in six days."

My arms shook slightly as some of the pieces began to slide into place. "You didn't just stop taking it, did you?"

"Of course that's what I did. I must admit it was difficult, but for a person with my level of intelligence it certainly wasn't impossible."

"You suicidal idiot!" I yelled hoarsely. "The shock could've killed you!"

"Yet here we are."

"What on earth possessed you to…?"

His gaze pierced me. "I simply wondered how hard it was to break an addiction."

I inhaled sharply, my breath shaky and quivering. Why was I surprised? I should've known by now that following this too logical man was a task that, at times, was simply beyond me.

"I'm going to help you stand up," I said quietly. "Can you do that?"

Holmes looked indignant. "Of course I can. Why would you think I couldn't?"

"You're crawling around in broken glass," I pointed out.

"Hmm. Fair point, Watson."

Cautiously I moved on the thin layer of glass until I could thread my arm under his.

"Ready?" I asked.

He glanced over at me and nodded.

I rose gradually, wincing slightly at the pain from my bad leg as I supported almost all of Holmes' weight. I felt the shaking in his body as he tried to support his body, and another wave of concern coursed through my body.

I led him to the door, each step pushing another spike of agony through my leg. I managed to get us both into my old room – which looked almost the same as when I had left, I noted – and I laid him down on the bed. I had to take a moment to just lean against the bed, my eyes shut from the pain.

When I opened my eyes, Holmes was scrutinizing me.

"Why are you here, Watson?" he suddenly inquired.

I sighed. "That's a question I myself wonder."

"You have no need to be here," he continued. "We no longer work together. You are busy with your new wife and building a better life. You have severed all ties with me. I fail to see – "

"Severed all ties?" I repeated incredulously. "Do you think our time together meant nothing to me? Do you think I stopped being your friend – stopped worrying about you – the instant I stepped outside that door?"

I shook my head. "There are some things you can't observe with just your eyes, Holmes."

He was silent, analyzing my response.

I released a breath through my nose. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

I went downstairs, searching for towels, antiseptic, tweezers, and bandages, but my mind couldn't stop racing. What actually convinced Holmes to partake in such a crazed experiment? He was a genius, his life was something he valued strongly. He only rushed headlong into problems and dangerous situations because he didn't perceive them to be dangerous; Holmes knew what situations he could take on and which he could not (although it didn't always appear that way).

So what would push him to succumb to such a state?

I forced myself to concentrate as I sat down on my old bed and almost tenderly gripped the back of one Holmes' hands, lifting it up for inspection. As I'd suspected, shards of glass were embedded throughout his hand.

"This is going to hurt," I warned.

Holmes quirked an eyebrow. "I can put up with a little pain, my dear Watson."

I set about removing the pieces of glass. Although there were many, none of the shallow cuts were serious and he could easily heal within a few weeks, a fact that eased the tightness in my chest.

As I gently wrapped his hands in crystalline snow-white cloth, I absentmindedly wondered what Holmes' hands would feel like once the bandages were gone and his skin would be peppered with tiny scars.

Holmes up his now swathed and immobilized hands. "And what do you expect me to do like this?"

"I expect you to keep those bandages on," I said sharply.

"And how do you expect me to solve cases?"

"I don't. You're going to stay here and heal and eat some proper meals, which I'm sure you haven't been doing."

"I'm hurt you think so little of me."

As I stood I rolled my eyes. "Please, Holmes. No more of your foolishness. Now I'm already late. Can I trust you by yourself?"

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question.

"I only meant to see if you were all right." Relenting, I continued, "I'll be back, I'll have to see how you're healing." I was also a touch afraid of leaving him alone for any long period of time.

Holmes wouldn't lift his gaze from me. "Watson."

"Make it quick, Holmes."

He smiled slightly, as though he were indulging himself in a joke only known to himself. "Come here."

I eyed him, but as usual I couldn't gain one little insight into his mind. Carefully I took a few steps toward him.

"Really, Holmes, this isn't the time for - !" My words were cut off when Holmes wrapped his arms around my waist and yanked as well as slamming his feet into the back of my legs. My knees buckled and I fell forward, my hands instinctively reaching out to stop my fall.

Holmes' lips were pressing against mine and I swear an eternity passed before my body responded and I scrambled off of the detective.

Backing toward the open doorway, I exclaimed, "Damn it, Holmes!" I honestly had no idea what to say.

"I'll see you later, then," he said with that unnerving calm as I fled.

I left hurriedly, politely asking Mrs. Hudson to clean the mess that was his room.

Avoiding him, however, was impossible. I was too worried about him and his mental state of health.

Dread certainly wasn't an unfamiliar feeling when mounting these steps, but even after confronting this feeling time and time again I still disliked it. Holmes had added a whole new level of uncertainty to the entire situation.

I went through the door into my room almost like a hunted animal. Holmes (a touch surprisingly) was lying on my bed with a detached and bored air, various pieces of paper strewn around him.

"While you've been gone Watson, I've solved thirty six cases, all of which have simply made clear to me that I was not meant for lounging about."

I snorted, put a little at ease by Holmes' usual manner. "You've no right to be complaining about lounging about, considering how inactive you usually are."

"Yes, but usually I have full use of all of my bodily functions."

For some reason, this comment made the blood rush to my face. Clearing my throat, I replied, "Yes, well, it shouldn't be long until you've fully healed. A week , maybe a little more, if everything goes smoothly."

I expected him to protest, but he was strangely silent as I unwrapped the bandages.

"Watson," he questioned, "how are you and Mary getting along?"

What brought this up? "Fine, thank you."

As though sensing my internal confusion, he began speaking again. "I hope you are aware of the fact that she may not provide all that you need."

"I fail to understand what you're trying to tell me."

"Perhaps it's best if I show you."

I sighed. "It can wait until I finish replacing your bandages, Holmes."

He pulled his hands away. "How certain of that can you be, my dear Watson?"

Irritated, I reached for his wrists. "Fairly certain, as this should only take a few minutes."

He smirked. "Indeed."

I felt weary at that word, and it doubled when Holmes wrapped his fingers around my wrist. I didn't pull away for fear of re-opening any of the cuts.

His gaze bored into me. "Do you know, Watson, that over this past month I have come to a startling conclusion."

For some reason, my heart began to beat faster. "And what would that be?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"Some addictions are impossible to break."

My brows furrowed. "And what is that supposed – "

For the second time (but certainly not the last) Holmes cut me off by kissing me. I shifted back, trying to break contact, but Holmes' body, his lips, followed me, pushing, shoving me down, and then I was lying on my old bed and Holmes was on top of me, still kissing me.

He pulled away, and I choked out, "Holmes…"

Before I could get farther, Holmes trailed his tongue down my neck. His hands were still on my wrists, trapping me, and I strained against the hold, knowing I wouldn't break free, unconsciously accepting of the position I was in.

Holmes paused, his face hidden from view. "Do you want me to stop?"

I didn't respond. I couldn't respond. I didn't have an answer. My mind screamed no, my body moaned yes, and the conflict stalled any words I might've said.

Holmes seemed unconcerned by my lack of response. He tugged my arms together, binding me with one hand, and slid the other hand inside my clothing, letting his fingers glide up my stomach. We both knew that the hand pinning my wrists was just for show, just an excuse to appease the side of me that rebelled against his touch. The side of me that was growing fainter and fainter…

This first time wasn't graceful or purposeful. It was more like a fulfilling of wants, letting our bodies arch and writhe and our breaths mingle. It took just a few short minutes; we were both aware of Mrs. Hudson puttering around one floor beneath us. I bit back my moans and cries and, for a few minutes, just let myself drown in the pleasure coursing through me.

Holmes was strangely silent as we cleaned up and I finished bandaging his wounds, but I could practically feel the smugness radiating off of him.

When I finished, I couldn't bring myself to leave him. To cover up this weakness I said, "You can move back to your own room, you know. Mrs. Hudson cleaned."

"I am aware of that," he responded easily.

Not able to think of anything else to say, I stood up to leave.

"I look forward to seeing you again," he called as I exited.

My visits continued, even after his hands had healed. I stopped only for short periods of time, and I knew even those were too long. I told Mary I was stopping there occasionally, and she seemed to accept that, sometimes giving me a small knowing smile.

I can't help but think of how quickly that smile would vanish if I told her what I was truly doing.

That wasn't what I was thinking about when I was together with him, though. No, I was barely thinking at all when his hands were touching mine, when our bodies were curled together. Thought was pointless then, fleeting and nearly impossible as it became more difficult to catch my breath.

When it was all over, when I was walking down the street with slightly shaking legs and a determinedly neutral expression, I couldn't stop the thoughts from racing through my head. The mantra of my consciousness – I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be here – was drowned out by our heavy breathing, but only for a little while. Now that it's all over (for now, for this time, at least) those thoughts rose, clamoring for attention. They begged me to stop, told me that this relationship was so wrong to continue, so wrong to even consider, let alone participate in.

I knew this. I know this. I know the truth, the horror, of this situation, even as my shoes cross the cobble-stoned street for my familiar destination. I know. I know.

So why can't I stop?

That I can't answer. Like an addiction, I can't help but keep returning to the thing that is killing me inside.

An addiction.

I slowed, gazing at the door to 221B Baker Street.

"I simply wondered how hard it was to break an addiction."

An addiction not of substance, but of longing and desire, of a person.

Me.

Surely it couldn't be so simple?

This time, after I'd entered and climbed the stairs and caught his smoldering gaze, I asked a question.

"Why, Holmes?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I need a little more context, my dear Watson."

I stepped closer, our bodies mere inches away. "Why are you doing this?"

"By 'this', I assume you are referring to our sexual escapades. And I am inclined to point out that our relationship is consensual."

"Answer the question, Holmes."

"What brings on this line of questioning?"

I realized Holmes was avoiding the inquiry.

"I wonder why I come here," I say, locking eyes with Holmes. "I realize it's wrong. I also realize I can't stop myself."

Did I notice his eyes widen slightly?

I gripped his shoulders tightly.

"An addiction I can't break…" I whispered.

He seized my shirt and crushed our lips together.

Neither of us was good with emotions. But lust – we both understood that quite clearly, and somehow instinctively turned to it, used it to express something I couldn't yet explain completely.

An addiction. Something uncontrollable, irrational, and utterly consuming. Something we shared in these forbidden moments. Something I was beginning to understand and something that he was just as confused about as I was.

It's odd, to think he would ever be confused. But he's human, just like the rest of us, with emotions, and a body, needs and caressing touches…

Those thoughts flee as he strips me of my clothing and replaces it with his lips and hand and body.

I shouldn't be here.

But this addiction…it's impossible to break.


End file.
